Not Today
by ropesburg
Summary: Cecil, the reporter at the local radio station, has had an eventful life. It all started one blindingly bright morning in January... Canon!verse. Cecil-centric.


A woman tentatively went up the stairs by the porch. She held up her dress, gripping the silky and deep-green fabric until her knuckles whitened.

A man walked behind her, passing on her right then opening the door in front of her. "After you," he said. He was tall.

While looking around the woman kept a hand on her stomach, shielding it from the unknown rooms. Two floors, seven rooms all in all.

"It's beautiful," she said, smiling. After having peered out the high colonial windows, she nodded. "There's even a little garden!" Heaving a sigh, she straightened up, grimacing then smiling through it. "They're going to love that." She stroked her belly. "You heard that, didn't you..."

The woman and the man spent another moment in silence, regarding the fenced in backyard. It would need clotheslines and perhaps a swing.

Over the next days, they moved in. Their firstborn son arrived, along with his grandmother.

"It'll be a relief having you close by," the older woman maintained, the younger woman nodding.

After a while they started to leave things around the house, as if to see if they were safe from harm. There was a tiny sock under the dining table. The man's suspenders were found in the backyard, an arm's length from the porch, as if they'd been tossed there.

"I think we might have got a little house elf," the man remarked dryly.

The woman, her stomach rounding into the shape of a drop, had her work cut out for her through trying to locate whatever was missing. Despite that the nights were peaceful there was always some discord in their house the next morning.

The man spent his days at the shop. He came home late, smelling of kerosene and powder. His steps were heavy and slow. Not a minute from putting his head on the pillow, he was asleep.

The bed was large. The woman put a hand on his cheek, as if she was warming her fingers. Gently. As if she feared the warmth spilling out. Without opening his eyes the man found her hand and squeezed it, once.

Soon, they were both asleep.

* * *

Sometime in January the following year, the woman discovered that all the spoons were gone. She went to the living room. The woman with the gray hair sat on the sofa, regarding the boy that played on the polished wood floor.

"Mother," the younger woman inquired, "Where did you put the spoons?"

Her mother furrowed her brow. "In the drawer, where you wanted them."

From the doorway, the woman sighed. "I just wondered." Stroking her stomach, she went to double check. Forks. Knives. Beside them, nothing.

"Looks like we won't be having soup today," she muttered to the belly.

She did some washing up, absentmindedly. Her skirts were folded in with her husband's sweaters. Some of the dirty plates were about to go back into the cupboard before she realized her mistake and gasped. "Where is my _head_ ," she argued hotly, then sighing, frowning, her face as wrinkled as chilled gravy. "Stupid-..."

Out on the lawn, there was a dozen shards of light. The woman went outside, forgetting to close the door.

The air felt like needles being stuck in her skin, the oxygen froze in her throat, her nose clogged up. There was a crunch from her steps as she walked over the gravel, then the grass. What little green there was had frozen over, more white than green, tufts dipped in ice. And in the middle of the backyard, the spoons.

They had been dug down, only the concave parts sticking up like shrunken drainers. She tried to dig up the one closest in line, but the earth was rock solid. Getting up from the crouch took some time. It was difficult to maneuver her body. Having just straightened up, she blinked in the sharp light.

The morning was relentless, along with the pain.

By the afternoon their second son was born.

* * *

"Be safe," she insisted.

"I will," he replied roughly, his hand already on the doorknob. He shut the door with a concise _clack._

The woman cooed at the child on her hip, trying to get him to stop his breathless crying. "Shh shh shh." She held him closer, his body supported by her chest. The baby coughed, then cried again. The woman kissed his head, cradling his frail neck and the little head, covered in tufts of brown hair. "It's alright, it's alright."

* * *

It took two days for the letter to get them. Death travels quickly and news travels slowly.

Her husband had made it to the sea, one last time.

Before boarding the ship he'd fallen sick.

Fever.

Having read it, the woman grew warm, hot, her cheeks burned. Her breathing grew sparse, struggling, like there was nothing to inhale, to put in her lungs.

The older woman, having seen the scene play out, grabbed the letter from the floor and skimmed through it.

"Oh."

There was something tugging at her skirts. "Nana," the oldest child said, his blue eyes spilling over with tears. She picked him up, wiped at his cheeks with a handkerchief.

"Your mother is just a bit sad. Let's go outside for a while."

Cecil, lying on a blanket on the floor, was happily regarding his toes.

Unbeknownst to him, now fatherless.

* * *

He started walking quickly, as if he couldn't wait to catch up with his brother. He started talking even sooner. It didn't make a great deal of sense at first. Soon Cecil, scrawny and beanstalk-looking, hurried along the corridors.

"James," he whined. "Wait for me."

He never did.

There was contempt in him, James.

He was young.

He was old.

* * *

For his fifth birthday, they'd bought him a crown made out of paper. Cecil had worn it the entire day, but when they sat down for the true birthday dinner, it seemed to gain some gravity.

He'd put on his favorite outfit, the gray striped shirt and black pants. There was already soda stains on it. The rain pounded against the windows, as if trying to wash the town away.

The older woman put the almost white pancakes on his plate.

"There you go," she said, smiling, her eyebrows raised.

Cecil smiled too, flashing his remaining teeth, "Thanks nana." He swung his legs a bit, impatiently looking at the food.

Across the table, also dressed in his Sunday best, his brother scorned. "Gross."

An indignant look on Cecil's face. "They're not!"

"They're not even pancakes-"

"Shh-," their grandmother interjected, holding up a hand. "There's someone at the door..." She got up to get it, putting the napkin on the table and brushing off her skirt impatiently.

The boys looked expectantly at their mother, but were met with a fearful expression. She put her fork down. It clinked, shivering in her shaking hand. "Who could it be at this hour?"

Less than a second later both of the kids had flung themselves out of their seats, rushing to see what was happening. By the door their grandma had been joined by a man in a dark coat. It dripped from the brim of his hat, from the hem of his jacket. There were already tiny pools forming on the unforgiving oak floor.

"Who are you?" James asked curtly, crossing his arms. He had positioned himself a tiny bit behind the other two, raising his chin and puffing out his chest.

The strange man smiled. "My name is May," he replied. "I'm from the Institute for Telecommunication Sciences."

James cocked his head to the side. "The what?"

"It's quite a long story," the man admitted. "Is your mother home?"

"I am," it came from the doorway to the kitchen. Her long brown hair was tousled. When she approached, she wrapped the knit sweater tighter around her body.

The man shifted where he stood, throwing a quick glance at Cecil, who stared back with a puzzled look on his face. "Is there somewhere we can speak more privately?"

...And despite listening intently, neither one of them could hear what was being said.

"Come help me with the dessert instead," their grandma said sharply, when she'd grown tired of them keeping one ear glued to the living room door.

"Put the cream on," she ordered and handed James the bowl with whipped cream. "Don't skimp."

It took another ten minutes before their mom came back out. By then the cake was done and the three of them had taken their seats by the table. The white cake sat in the middle, a dome of cream and strawberries.

When Cecil saw the present in her mother's hand, he gasped. "Is that for me?"

"...Yes," she said, and sat back down heavily. Sighing, she then blinked, noticing the uneaten dessert. "I thought you would start without me," she remarked.

James shook his head. "It would be rude."

Their grandma snorted. "And now we're gentlemen again." She nodded at the cake, "Cecil, if you would hand me your plate..."

A calm unfolded in the room.

Cecil spilled cream on his shirt, without noticing. "Nana..."

"Yes?" the older woman asked, lifting her tea cup to take a sip.

"You can't be a gentleman."

She smiled. Put the cup down. "I can't?"

He shook his head vigorously. A spoonful of cream, that had used to be _on_ the spoon, flew down on the floor.

James groaned.

Not dismayed by this, Cecil continued; "You would be a gentlenan."

From the other side of the table, their mother threw up a hearty laugh. The first one they'd heard in years.

The woman laughed.

She threw her head back, then leaned forward again, wiping at her cheek with her embroidered napkin.

"Oh, thank the heavens," she breathed. "What have I done to deserve you?" She smiled, still teary-eyed, reaching a hand out to stroke James' hair. "My two lovely boys."

Cecil, beaming proudly, continued to spill another bit of cake on the floor. The expensive Persian carpet got stained. It didn't matter.

The present his mom had so mysteriously acquired turned out to be a _Little Reporter's Book of Big Boy Note Taking_.

When he fell asleep that night, it was with the notebook tightly clutched to his chest.


End file.
